Yorkshire Gold
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: Mycroft may not mourn Sherlock's death-but even if he knows his brother lives, he's not without his own grief. It ain't easy being The British Government. But at least he's got good help. Set between the Fall and the Return. Small. Quiet. Very, very mild hurt/comfort. Hope it's enjoyed.


"Another message from your brother, sir," the woman formerly known as Anthea said, handing Mycroft the printout. "He's completed the assignment in Varanasi."

"Thank you," Mycroft responded, calmly. "Were there any difficulties?"

"A minor injury—he took a fall. Some bruising. A hairline fracture of his left ankle. Marginal."

"Tell him we won't give him a new assignment until he heals."

"Already done, sir. He'd prefer to continue, sir."

"Tell him no…and that I'll pull him in if he doesn't cooperate."

"I think that might be best coming from you, sir."

For the first time since she came in, Mycroft met her eyes.

She was a treasure, that one. She came up through the clerical staff, of all things. He's since had her trained substantially more extensively. So few of his people have a sense of humor about what they do. She is among those few. He'd known it the first day she'd been assigned to him. He'd asked her what he should call her, and she'd said, "Call me Moneypenny, sir." That was no more her name than Anthea. Or Modesty. Or Cassandra. Or Violetta. Or whatever other name she came up with on the spur of the moment. What had sealed the deal for Mycroft was that she always offered her latest whimsical cover name with a perfectly straight face.

When he'd named Bond Air, she'd instantly added the flight number 007 without further comment.

In a life that contained too few people who got his jokes, she was a precious gem. She understood him. That, however, also made her dangerous: she was one of the few who could hope to serve as ballast in his life, forcing him to reevaluate his choices.

"You think Sherlock needs stronger reins? Is he rebelling?"

" I think you've avoided talking to him more than once since the night of The Fall, sir."

He turned his attention to the papers in front of him. "This is safer for him. I want no connection between us that can be traced."

"Tracing isn't a problem, now. We've dealt with that."

"It's safer for us, too. If they ever identify him, there can't be any indication he's ours, not an independent vigilante."

Rather than argue she walked around the desk, cheekily reached into his jacket pocket, and removed his mobile, placing it in the exact center of the paperwork. Then she was off and away, a silent ship sailing for other ports of call, saying only, "Let me know when you need me, sir," before the door closed and she was gone.

Mycroft scowled. He prodded the mobile with one long finger. He made a moue of distaste. Relatives were so much work.

Still.

If Anthea-Moneypenny-Agent99-Modesty thought he was avoiding this, he probably was. No, he certainly was. He sighed, and picked up the phone.

_I hear you've been injured, but don't want to take time to recuperate. Dolt. We shan't send you more information until you're better. MH_

_So good to see those familiar initials. Mycroft Holmes: Mother Hen. I need work. I'm bored. SH_

_All in good time. Heal, first. MH_

_I shall find other ways to amuse myself. SH_

_Do that and we'll never give you another assignment at all. MH_

_My career in MI6 ruined! I'm crushed. SH_

_It can be a career. If you want it. MH_

_You just want me inside, where you can keep an eye on me. SH_

_I want you on my team, where I can communicate with you. I never want to have to keep you out of the loop that way again. MH_

_Crocodile tears, Mycroft? How unlike you. SH_

_Just because I still think it was necessary doesn't mean I feel no remorse. MH_

_How touching. I weep for you. SH_

_I keep an eye on them, you know. Your friends. MH_

Mycroft was not surprised when the response was slow in coming. Sherlock's his brother, and admits to feelings slowly and with scant grace. At last the reply arrived.

_Is John well? The others? Are they well? SH_

_As well as might be. I'm sorry. MH_

_Apology not accepted. Keep them safe. SH_

_Of course. MH_

_Was it all worth it? SH_

_Yes. Do you want a reckoning in lives? The total now living who would not have been? MH_

_Impossible, as you know. SH_

_You can count three already. Four if you count yourself. MH_

_You can hardly take credit. They lived because I jumped. SH_

_You jumped because we altered Moriarty's natural course of action. MH_

_And, as usual, I am asked to believe his actions would have been worse without your interference? SH_

_Yes. You are. You're seeing what he was really part of, now. Tell me I'm wrong. MH_

_Being right is not an appealing character trait, Mycroft. SH_

_You should know, Sherlock. MH_

_My friends were not meant to pay for your games. It was not supposed to end this way. SH_

_I know. I'm sorry. MH_

_Apology not accepted. Who's next on your list, damn it? I'm bored. SH_

_Annika Bartovna. Berlin. I'll give you more details when you've healed—but in the meantime you can research her. She works on Angela Merkel's staff. MH_

_Ah. A minor position in the German government, Mycroft? SH_

_I assure you, there's no comparison between us. She's a criminal and a terrorist. MH_

_And you're not? It's all a matter of perspective, brother-dear. SH_

_Then join her lot, if you think there's no difference. MH_

_You're no white dove. Your wings are soiled, too. SH_

_Yes. Quite. And, yet, I fly with the angels. MH_

_Poetry, Mycroft? SH_

_No. Pragmatism. Let me know when you've researched Bartovna. MH_

_I will. Keep him safe, Mycroft. Keep them all safe. SH_

_Insofar as possible. MH_

_Even if it's impossible. SH_

_I try, Sherlock. You know I try. MH_

_Yes. Someday I may forgive you for it. SH_

_I doubt you will shrive me, Sherlock. I shall go to my grave with all my good deeds unforgiven. MH_

_One Holmes dead is enough, for now. SH_

_More than enough. Again, I'm sorry. MH_

_Apology not accepted. Never accepted. Keep them safe. SH_

_I will try. MS_

He wasn't properly surprised when, having ended the exchange, she-who-was-far-too-named arrived with tea—the comfort of the proper gentleman, assuming he couldn't have a stiff scotch.

"You're monitoring my phone use."

She raised an eyebrow. "You knew that already. It's my job, sir." She poured out for him. "Black, sir. "

"Darjeeling?"

"Don't be daft. Not when you're feeling punk. Yorkshire Gold, brewed up black as sin. Dump in milk and sugar and it will be a proper builder's tea."

"And you've provided ginger nuts, too, I see. Apparently you think me at death's door." Only her eyes smiled, and then only faintly. "You take good care of me, my dear."

"My job, sir." She started to leave, then turned back. "He mourns that he had to fool them. They mourn because they think he's dead. You, though—you mourn because you did the very best you could, and there were still costs."

"I would hardly call it mourning—not with builder's tea and ginger nuts."

"That's just the funeral meats."

"You think I should not mourn?"

"No, sir, I think you should do it properly. "

"Bawling by the empty grave?" He grimaced in distaste. "How bourgeois."

"Mourning includes sharing."

"Ah, confessional grief."

"No. A cup of Yorkshire Gold—and knowing someone understands."

He busied himself with his tea, dumping in sugar and milk, stirring, sipping. Not looking up, he murmured. "I see. So I am not alone, then?" His voice was dry and detached. "And now you fetch me a box of tissues? I think not, my dear. I already have a perfectly good pocket handkerchief of my own."

"Of course you do, sir." Her voice, unlike his, was warm, and amused.

"Very good, then. That will be all…Miss Moneypenny."

"Very good…Mother."

For one golden moment their eyes met, fond and at ease with each other and with the silences that lie between them. He did not say, "Thank you." He didn't need to. She didn't say, "You're welcome." It's a given. Instead she said, "I've got a new report from the Kensington group. Shall I bring it in, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, and the world moved on.


End file.
